


Killing Me Softly

by tiigi



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Background Relationships, Cheating, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Tom is a singer and... kind of a youtuber lol, brief and not very angsty, but still, eventually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:27:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28389261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiigi/pseuds/tiigi
Summary: Tom’s voice is angelic. He sings with a steady voice, no wavering at all, and strums a pattern of repeating chords. Harry watches the way his fingers dance over the frets, mesmerised.*Tom is a singer. Harry is his muse. It’s just a shame they haven’t met yet.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Comments: 211
Kudos: 521





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I blame bell for this entirely, she sent me [this](https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=k4A5XuMz_Tw) song and set me loose :’)
> 
> (Thank you <3)
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

Harry hears his soulmate before he ever sees him. He has a beautiful voice, lilting and soft and raspy when it needs to be. By the time Harry gets to the end of the song he has to go back to the beginning and start it over again, because he’d been too distracted to listen to the lyrics. 

Tom Riddle is everything Harry has ever wanted in a soulmate. He’s talented, he’s smart, he’s funny and he’s beautiful. When he sings, it’s like he’s singing for Harry only, like his songs were only meant for his soulmate to hear. The words lodge themselves in Harry’s heart, carve a place for themselves in his soul. He carries them around with him wherever he goes.

The only problem is, they have never actually met. 

Harry finds Tom on YouTube. It’s a ritual of sorts: he logs onto the family computer, searches ‘Tom Riddle’ on Google, Facebook, YouTube and every other website he can think of that might provide results. He does so, of course, under his parents’ supervision, because they have always been overprotective and apparently letting him roam free on the internet at the age of eight is unacceptable.

Harry can’t think why.

Usually, his searching turns up nothing. Of course there are a few results, LinkedIn profiles of old men that he refuses to believe are his soulmate. He continues to do it, because the way ‘Tom Riddle’ is etched into his wrist with an elegant swoop and curl to the letters makes Harry think that his soulmate _must_ be destined for great things, but each time he finds nothing he comes away a little sadder. And then, one day, there’s _something._

It’s a channel - a new one, made the very same day, with only one video posted so far. It has three views and no comments. Harry’s stomach somersaults with a sudden spike of excitement.

The boy in the thumbnail looks to be fifteen or sixteen, with a neat swoop of brown hair and dark eyes that dart from the camera to the guitar in his hands, and then back again. Harry can’t see much of the room behind him, but he can make out two beds pushed against the far wall, close enough to each other that they’d be able to reach out and touch. Maybe he shares with a sibling, Harry thinks.

Tom clears his throat and then says, “Hello. This is my first video, obviously, but I’d appreciate it if I could get some feedback. I’ve been writing songs for a while now, and I’d like to improve in any way I can. Just… let me know.”

He doesn’t sound shy or nervous about putting himself out there. If anything, he sounds irritated that he has to ask. Harry grins. So his soulmate - because this _is_ his soulmate, Harry is sure of it - happens to be perfectly confident. Good. He’s certainly handsome enough to be sure of himself. 

Then he starts to play, and Harry feels tears well up. He blinks them back hurriedly, hyper aware of his parents sitting at the table behind him. They’re trying to pretend that they aren’t eavesdropping, but their conversation has fallen silent and he’s sure if he were to look over his shoulder, he would find them already watching him. 

Tom’s voice is _angelic._ He sings with a steady voice, no wavering at all, and strums a pattern of repeating chords. Harry watches the way his fingers dance over the frets, mesmerised.

Harry finished the video. Then he watches it again, and again, and again. By the time he is starting his fifth rewatch, his mother’s hand squeezes his shoulder.

“Harry…” she says gently.

“It’s him, mum,” Harry says, turning wide, watery eyes up at her. “I know it is.”

She exchanges a worried look with James. “He’s a little bit older than you, love,” she says. “I think maybe you should wait a little longer before you reach out.”

“How much longer? A week? My birthday’s next Sunday, remember.”

Lily smiles and cups Harry’s face. “As if I could ever forget.” Then her smile fades, and she watches the muted video with unbridled curiosity. “It’s just that most people meet their soulmates when they’re a little older. Do you really want your embarrassing parents chaperoning you two everywhere?”

“No…” Harry bites his lip. Surely Tom would understand? Surely he wouldn’t mind Harry being younger? Just because they can’t hold hands and kiss just yet doesn’t mean that they can’t play games together or watch TV together. But maybe his parents are right? What if he reaches out to Tom and Tom wants nothing to do with a little kid? What if he gets rejected before he even gets a chance to meet his soulmate?

“How about this,” his father says suddenly, wrapping an arm around Lily’s waist. “You can make a super secret account, and comment nice things on all of his videos. Then, when you’re a bit older, you can tell him your name and see what happens. How about that?”

Harry likes that idea. He likes having the opportunity to get to know Tom before there are any expectations heaped upon him. He nods eagerly.

They set it up the next day. Tom’s video still doesn’t have many views, which Harry thinks is an outrage because his voice is heavenly and his song is beautiful, but as long as it means Harry’s comment won’t get lost in a sea of other admirers then he can live with it for now.

He enters ‘ _The Chosen One’_ as his username, which Lily rolls her eyes at and James snorts at. He thinks it’s fitting. He _is_ the chosen one. He’s Tom’s chosen one anyway, chosen by fate and destiny to be the most important person in Tom’s life. Maybe Tom will see through the hidden meaning and figure everything out.

He can dream, anyway.

And then he sits there in front of the screen for far too long, chin in his hand, features despondent. “What should I say?” Harry asks finally, because this has to be perfect, it has to make Tom like him, and that has never been Harry’s strong point.

“How about… ‘I really like your song, you’re very talented’?” James suggests.

“Or, ‘I can’t wait to hear more from you’,” Lily adds.

“Or both?”

“We don’t want to overwhelm the poor boy, James.”

“He’s a teenager, he’ll appreciate it!”

“ _Mum,”_ Harry interrupts. “Dad. Come _on.”_

Lily sighs. “Just write something from the heart, Harry. Something you think he’d like to hear, and something that you want him to know. You can’t go wrong like that, alright?”

Harry is dubious. He’s pretty sure she wouldn’t be saying that if he were to write Tom a marriage proposal, but he keeps that to himself in favour of thinking something up. 

In the end, he takes their advice.

 _‘Love love love your song!!!’_ He writes. _‘Do you have any more?? Your voice is amazing!!!’_

He can’t sleep that night. It’s like Christmas and birthdays all rolled into one nerve wracking experience. What will Tom have said? Will he have responded at all? Harry doesn’t know what he’ll do if he logs in tomorrow to find no new reply waiting for him. He tosses and turns for hours before he drifts off, and even then his dreams are filled with monsters and hissing snakes that chase him around the garden and a song, a beautiful song that echoes from a speaker high in the sky. He wakes up in a sweat.

 _‘Thank you,’_ Tom has written, ever the gentleman. _‘I have a bunch more songs I’m excited to share. I’m glad you like them :)’_

Harry’s parents have to peel him off the floor and carry him over to the sofa when he swoons. 

*

Harry is ten when Tom makes it big. He’s been preparing for it for years, but it still stings to watch the intimacy slowly disappear, to see Tom’s replies become distant and short and then, eventually, to disappear entirely. Tom deserves it, Harry knows, because he has an incredible voice and his songs just keep getting better and the quality of his videos improves dramatically when he moves out of his old house.

Harry knows when he moves out, because Tom makes a five minute Q&A about it. His videos have been picking up more traction, and before Harry knows it he has a whole social media following that call for content in between his music videos. Harry learns that Tom is seventeen now, and he lives on his own, and he has a part time job that allowed him to buy better recording equipment. Harry leaves a comment about how proud he is, how excited he is for Tom and to see what comes next, but it goes unnoticed in thousands of comments saying exactly the same thing. 

_They don’t mean it like I do,_ Harry thinks dejectedly. _They don’t mean it as much as me. I was his first ever fan._

But he keeps these thoughts to himself. His parents have enough to worry about as it is. He sees them getting more concerned every time Tom gains more followers, sees the worried looks they exchange and hears the hushed conversations they cut short when he walks in. They’re worried about Harry, but they’re also worried about _Tom,_ and about how Tom’s fame could affect their future relationship.

If they even have one that is, Harry thinks stubbornly. He doesn’t know whether Tom is ignoring _The Chosen One_ or if he’s just plain forgotten about him, but either way he hasn’t spoken directly to Tom for over six months now. The loss makes his chest feel raw and empty. 

“Cheer up, sport,” James tries to no avail. “I’m sure he’s just overwhelmed at the moment. He’s getting so many comments these days, maybe he just hasn’t seen yours.”

But that’s the problem. If he doesn’t see Harry’s comments anymore, what does Harry have left?

*

Tom makes it onto television when he is nineteen and Harry has just turned twelve. Harry watches the interview with grim determination in the downturned corners of his mouth. Ron and Hermione, his new friends from secondary school, are staying over for the night but Harry wasn’t going to miss this for the world.

“How does it feel, Tom, to go from posting YouTube videos to playing in stadiums with thousands of people watching? I imagine it must be slightly overwhelming,” the interviewer asks, a condescending smile pasted onto his face. Harry glowers at him and wraps his arms around his knees. Stupid interviewer. Stupid Tom for agreeing to talk to him in the first place.

“It’s definitely different,” Tom says, his voice so smooth and his smile so charming. Harry glares harder. “Recording videos is a lot less pressure, because if I mess up I can just scrap the recording and try again, you know? But in a way, I’ve had thousands, _millions_ of people watching for years now. It’ll still take a while to get used to, of course, but it’s not as intimidating as I thought it would be.”

“I don’t get it,” Hermione sighs. “If you hate the guy so much, why do you insist on watching all of his interviews?”

Ron and Hermione have never seen the name on his wrist. He keeps it covered with a flat leather band, the same way Tom always does. 

“I don’t hate him,” Harry mutters. “I love his songs.”

“And, I hope you won’t hate me for asking, but what can we find out about your love life?” The interviewer speaks again, and Harry’s heart drops to the pit of his stomach. “Any romance on the horizon for you? Any soulmate we should know about? I’m sure there are a great many young ladies watching that would be interested.”

Tom laughs, but it’s a fake laugh, and it’s a fake smile and everything about this interview is _fake fake fake._ Tom puts on a mask every time he stands in front of the public for inspection. He has done ever since he started gaining subscribers at a rapid pace. Those first few videos when he was still young and new and exploring, even though they have hundreds of thousands of views now, are the most candid Tom has ever been with his audience. Harry hates it, and even though it’s horribly unfair of him, he kind of hates Tom for it as well, just a little bit.

But then Tom cocks his head and folds his legs and says, “Every song I write, I write for my soulmate,” and Harry melts. 

How could he be so cruel, so unforgiving? Tom has spent nineteen years alone, wondering where his soulmate is and why they haven’t sought him out yet. He’s faced the judgement of the world at such a young age, and Harry knows just as well as anyone that it’s easier to be judged for a false pretence than for who you really are. How can Harry blame the fact that he is alone on Tom, when Tom has been alone all this time?

“I don’t hate him at all,” Harry murmurs, turning to his friends. “I’m his number one fan.”

Maybe it’s time he reaches out to Tom properly. His parents probably won’t even object anymore, not now that Harry is twelve years old. He understands the importance of staying safe, and while he doesn’t think his soulmate would ever actually hurt him, he wouldn’t go against their wishes if they set down ground rules.

Yes, Harry decides, it’s time to meet Tom, and for Tom to meet him. They’ve both been waiting long enough. He won’t ask just yet, because both of his parents have been stressed at work and he doesn’t want to add something else onto their list of things to worry about. He’ll wait a week, and then he’ll ask.

*

The following week, Tom Riddle is photographed outside a fancy hotel in London, tongue deep in some unnamed brunette with piercing eyes and Tom’s album artwork tattooed on her forearm: a twisting snake and skull design. The photo circulates on Twitter for a whole week before it dies down. Music magazines write article after article about it, speculating about who the woman could have been and whether or not Tom Riddle has finally found his soulmate. Harry turns his phone off and doesn’t leave his room for hours. 

*

“You’re being unfair,” he father tells him after two weeks of moping. “I dated other people before I met your mother. She did too. Neither of us ever held it against each other.”

“Well aren’t you a saint.” Harry rolls his eyes.

 _“Harry,”_ his mother says sharply, and he mumbles an apology. 

“I’m just saying that it’s not fair of you to hold this against Tom, alright? I know it hurts, bud, but Tom doesn’t even know who you are. He’s not doing it to hurt you. He’s a young man who never got the chance to have a normal love life. It’s understandable he’s jumping into it now.”

“You and mum never had to see it happening though,” Harry whines. “It feels like he’s rubbing my face in it. It’s _always_ there, every time I go online.”

“May I suggest that your time might be better spent on homework than on social media?” Lily raises an eyebrow.

“You may suggest,” Harry sniffs. 

Harry groans when his mother gathers him into a tight embrace, but secretly he craves the warmth and the familiar, comforting waft of perfume. She strokes his hair and kisses his cheek and pats his shoulder when she pulls away.

“You never know, Harry,” she says. “Maybe he just wants to get some dating experience for when he meets you.”

That thought, however unlikely it seems, is enough for Harry to perk up. He imagines Tom practising small talk and big romantic gestures on other people so that he’ll get it just right when they finally meet, and even though jealousy flares in his stomach, he smiles. He is being unfair, and he should probably work on his envy problems.

He can live with this for a little longer. 

*

Tom and Bellatrix Black break up when Harry is thirteen. The only positive thing to come from it is that he doesn’t have to listen to Draco Malfoy’s insufferable bragging about his aunt dating a celebrity anymore. Tom finds a new girlfriend soon after.

In fact, Tom _keeps_ finding new people to date for the next year and a half. They never last for more than a few months, but it seems that Tom has a never ending supply of men and women to kiss on camera. Harry’s heart sinks every time he sees a new one on the news.

He’s being an arshole, he knows. There’s no etiquette that says you shouldn’t date other people before your soulmate - at least none that Harry believes in - and it’s only a problem for him because Tom is constantly in the public eye. The problem is not that Tom is kissing everyone. The problem is that Tom is kissing everyone but him. 

*

By the time Christmas comes around, Harry is convinced that his parents are up to something. They’re having whispered conversations that stop when he walks into a room, they’re hogging the family computer and they giggle like school children whenever Harry watches Tom’s newest video. It’s irritating, but it’s also ominous. They’re planning something, and Harry wants to know what.

The answer, of course, comes on Christmas Day. They’re gathered around the fire in the living room; Harry is sleepy and full and ready to sleep for ten whole hours, when his parents wave an envelope under his nose. He squints at it suspiciously.

“What is it?” He asks.

“Oh, if only there was some way you could find out,” James says.

“Don’t talk back to me, young man.” Harry snatches the envelope away and tears it open with a grin. He’s excited, despite the nerves bubbling away. This must be something important for his parents to save it until last. 

“Careful, you’ll rip them!” Lily laughs, but Harry is frozen, speechless.

Inside are two tickets to a show in London at the beginning of January. _‘Tom Riddle’_ is the name printed at the top. 

*

“Stop pulling at your clothes, would you?” His mother prods his arm. “You look fine.”

Harry stretches out the bottom of his t-shirt in case it’s hanging strangely. The sleeves are rolled all the way down to his wrists, but he has the leather band snapped securely around his soulmark just in case. “But do I look _attractive?”_ He asks.

“You’re fourteen! You don’t need to look attractive.” Then she leans down into his personal space and plants a flurry of kisses on his forehead. “But you know you’ll always be my handsome little guy.”

 _“Mum!”_ Harry cries, smoothing down his hair in desperation. “My _fringe.”_

“Handsome. Little. Guy.”

Harry rolls his eyes, but he’s too stressed to even pretend to be annoyed. They’ve been in the meet-and-greet queue for fifteen minutes now, shuffling along at a snail’s pace, and Harry becomes jumpier with every forward step. He bounces on the balls of his feet and bites his nails.

“What if I make a fool of myself?”

Lily considers this. “Don’t,” she says finally.

“What if he’s mean?”

“Then we demand a refund.”

_“Mum!”_

“Harry, sweetheart, _relax._ This was supposed to be fun for you. I knew you’d be nervous, but I didn’t think it would be anywhere near as bad as this. We can leave any time you like.”

“I don’t want to leave,” he mumbles, and kicks the floor. “I’m just… scared.”

Lily smiles warmly. “I’ll be with you every step of the way, Harry. If you need me to make a distraction, let me know. I’ll faint right into his arms.”

“If anyone’s fainting into his arms, it should be me!” 

“You won’t be going anywhere near his arms for another four years, young man,” Lily says firmly, furrowing her eyebrows at him. He’s about to make a smartass comment about posing for the picture when the line shuffles forward again.

“Next, please!” An employee says, and beckons them forward with a frazzled smile.

Lily squeezes his shoulder and starts to move, but Harry’s feet are suddenly frozen. His breathing comes in ragged and unsteady, his eyes wide and terrified. Tom is _right there,_ right in front of him. Harry has been watching him for so many years, watching him grow up and get better and get famous, and now he is right there and _Harry can’t move._

Tom is watching him now with a tilted head and a kind, distant smile. He’s just as handsome as he’s always been; it’s plain to see that he’s grown up beautiful. His hair is longer than it was as a teenager - maybe his parents didn’t let him grow it out? Tom never says much about his family in interviews - and there is a snake tattoo creeping up his neck and curling around his ear, but his eyes are the same glittering, chocolate brown that they’ve always been. He’s tall and broad at the shoulders and everything Harry isn’t.

“Harry, come on,” Lily whispers, steering him forward with a firm hand between his shoulder blades. “Sorry,” she says to Tom. “He’s a little nervous.”

“That’s quite alright,” Tom says, and his voice is even lovelier in person than it is in recordings. For all their jokes about fainting, Harry might actually do it. “What’s your name?”

Harry freezes. His parents had spoken with him about this at great length. He’ll tell Tom his name, and then he and his mum can deal with the fallout together. If Tom cancels the rest of the meet and greet then it’ll be a shame for all the people behind Harry in the queue, but ultimately it will be worth it. Tom will finally have found his soulmate.

But now, confronted with the reality of the situation, Harry can’t do it. He looks inside himself for a speck of courage, the last little bit of bravery to push him over the edge, but it’s nowhere to be found. He just _can’t._

“Nothing!” He blurts out before he can properly think about it. And then… shit.

Tom blinks. “Well,” he says. “I haven’t heard that one before.”

“It’s very rare,” Harry agrees. He’s pretty sure his mother is facepalming behind him. 

“Well,” Tom says again. “Would you like a photo?”

Harry’s voice, if he tried to use it, would be strangled and squeaky. All he can do is press his lips together and nod wildly. 

Tom holds his arm out as an offering and - despite Lily’s warning glare - slips into place at Tom’s side. Tom is warm and solid and he smells divine. Although he keeps Harry angled away at an impersonal distance, he remains polite and friendly as he smiles at the camera. Harry wishes he could have prepared more for this moment, because this is his only ever picture with Tom and he’s going to look constipated in it.

“Are you alright, kid?” Tom asks suddenly, and Harry looks at him. Tom is watching him with warm, worried eyes. 

“I…” He can’t think of a single thing to say. Staring up at Tom is addictive. He could look at this face forever, he thinks, could catalogue every smile line and freckle and scar and still never get bored. 

“Mmm?” Tom prompts, nodding encouragingly. To his horror, Harry realises that his eyes are shiny-wet with tears.

“Thank you for changing my life,” he says in a rush, and then flees.

“Harry!” His mother calls after him, but he doesn’t stop. The sound of her light footfalls against the floor are reassurement enough that she’s following him. 

Because he turned and ran almost immediately, Harry missed the way Tom’s eyes flash with curiosity, with interest. Because he doesn’t look back, he doesn’t catch the way Tom mouths, ‘Harry’ and almost unconsciously traces a finger over his wrist.

Harry misses all of that. He’s too busy freaking out.

*

After that, Harry decides something needs to be done.

He was a fool to think he could break the news in person. Of course he would get nervous and mess up. It was bound to happen, because Harry is awkward and hopeless at the best of times. He can write all his feelings down in a letter and send it off, and that way he doesn’t have to watch Tom react. He doesn’t have to see disappointment mar his features, or disgust or anger or any other horrible emotion that Harry wants to avoid. 

If Tom wants to reply to him, fantastic. If not…

At least he’ll know for sure.

 _Dear Tom,_ he starts.

_My name is Harry Potter. As you might have guessed, I am your soulmate. Sorry I haven’t reached out before. I’ve been watching your career grow over the years, and it’s very impressive. You’re an amazing singer. I’ve been a fan for years, ever since your first video. I hope you don’t think this is creepy, but your songs have been an immense help to me all these years. Sometimes it felt like you were singing only to me, like you were describing my emotions perfectly in a way you shouldn’t be able to know. I don’t know. Maybe I’m being ridiculous, but I watched that interview where you said you wrote all your songs for your soulmate. I’ve never been anyone’s muse before. I’m proud to be yours._

_I’d like the opportunity to get to know you. If you’d rather not, I completely understand. I’m fourteen (almost fifteen!) years old, and I know you’re older, but I really would just like to talk to you. I’ve added a return address at the bottom, if you want to keep talking. Or, if you’d rather, my email address is_ _harry.potter2000@gmail.com_ _:)_

_Anyway. Sorry for rambling. Hope you’re well!_

~~_Love_ ~~ _,_

_From, Harry_

He folds it up neatly and seals it into an envelope. He uses his best handwriting to put down the address of Tom’s P.O. Box, and then gets a second class stamp from his father’s collection. Tom must get so many random messages on social media from total strangers that he likely never checks them. A letter will find him soon enough. It’ll take two or three days to arrive, which will give Harry the time he needs to prepare himself.

Harry sends the letter and feels as though a weight has melted right off his shoulders.

The next day, Tom is photographed at a party, completely drunk, with his sleeves pushed up and his wristband nowhere to be seen. His soulmark is bared to the world, and just like that, Harry’s life explodes. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I maybe overestimated how much plot I could fit into one chapter... whoops :’)
> 
> The last chapter will hopefully be up soon! <3

Overnight, everything changes. Harry knew it would. He goes to bed that night with his stomach twisted in tight, panicked knots, and sleep, when it comes, is restless. When he wakes up, everything will be different.

He turns his phone off. He has to, because there are over a hundred messages waiting for him when he opens his eyes. Some of them are from Ron and Hermione which is to be expected, and he should actually get back to them, but most are from people he goes to school with, or worse, total strangers. Hundreds of fake social media accounts pop up with different variations of the username ‘Harry Potter’ and Tom still hasn’t made any comment about it. About _any_ of it.

So yes, Harry turns his phone off, and he gets back into bed, and he cries. When his parents come into his room half an hour later - quiet, hesitant, like they don’t really know how to act anymore - he feels completely drained. 

“I’m sure it’ll all blow over soon,” his father says with fake cheer. 

“It won’t,” Harry mutters, and lifts a corner of his duvet off his face so they can see him. “Everybody knows now. And people will tease me about it, and they’ll get fake soulmark tattoos and they’ll tell him that _they’re_ his soulmate instead of me. And what if he falls in love with one of them instead?”

Tears burn at the back of his eyes. He squeezes them shut to try and hold them back, but all it does is make it worse. A sob shudders through his body.

 _“Harry,”_ Lily says. She sits on the edge of his mattress and strokes his hair, her hand so cool and comforting against his skin. “Sweetheart. It’ll work itself out, okay? Maybe not now, but eventually.”

“I just don’t understand,” Harry whines, his voice thick with tears. “Why would he take it off? Why would he show everyone when he’s spent so long being careful?”

“It didn’t look like he was in his right mind.”

“He’s gotten drunk before,” Harry points out. “So why now?”

Lily sighs. “I don’t know,” she says. “Maybe he was tired of pretending.”

*

Tom never replies to Harry’s letter. Harry tries not to be too down about it, because there must be a sudden influx of fan mail claiming to be from Harry Potter. It’s impossible for Tom to know which one person is being genuine in a sea of fakes and liars. 

Still, he waits with baited breath every time the postman brings new mail, and it hurts that nothing ever comes for him.

School is strange now as well. People look at him funny or whisper about him in the hallways, and kids who never wanted anything to do with him before suddenly want to be his friend. Even older students approach him at break to ask if he’s really Tom Riddle’s soulmate.

Having to explain everything to Ron and Hermione is the hardest. They try to shield him from the stares and rumours as much as they can, but it’s obvious they feel betrayed. They have the right to. They never hid their soulmarks from him before. They _talked_ about Tom, they watched all those interviews with Harry and they never complained about his strange obsession. They deserved to find out before the rest of the world, at least. 

“I just don’t get it,” Hermione says. “You never said. You never even _hinted._ Do you love him or hate him?”

Harry swallows back a short, sharp bark of laughter. “Sometimes,” he says. “I think both. It doesn’t matter either way. He doesn’t know I exist, and he could have anybody he wanted. He’s dated loads of people, and I’ve… I’ve never dated anybody.”

He tries not to look so dejected about it, but Hermione has always been one to pick up social cues, and she’s always been one to blurt it out. Ron is considerably less perceptive, but he tries. 

“You could, though.”

“Hmm?”

“You could date people, if you wanted.” Hermione is watching him carefully, as though she’s waiting for him to protest.

“Oh, mate, you definitely could,” Ron adds. “Especially now. I’m pretty sure Cho was into you before all of this happened. And hey, you didn’t hear this from me, but Ginny has had the biggest crush on you for years.”

Hermione rolls her eyes. “Ronald, he’s _gay.”_ Then she pauses and turns to Harry with a raised eyebrow. “Are you?”

Harry shrugs. His face is on fire and he can’t look at either of them when he says, “I dunno.”

“Well,” Hermione says. “If you don’t know that, then you _definitely_ need some dating experience. Do you want me to set up a date for you?”

“Oh God, I really don’t want my friends to have to set me up. That’s so sad. Imagine I have to meet Tom and tell him that the only date I could get is one my friends organised.”

“Imagine meeting Tom and telling him that you’re seven years younger than him and you’ve never dated anybody,” Ron says. _“That_ won’t freak him out at all.”

“As much as I hate to say it, he’s right,” Hermione adds. “And really, Harry, you need this for yourself as well. You need to be able to stand your own against him when you meet him.”

 _“If_ I meet him,” Harry grumbles, but he takes their point. He gets Hermione to set him up with Ginny, just to see Ron squirm.

*

Maybe it’s mean of him, because he’s sort of using Ginny, but he knows Ginny is sort of using him too. They both want to get some experience, and they’re friends, and they understand each other somewhat. Ginny does like him, and Harry is fond of her as well. Kissing her, while it doesn’t spark the fireworks he’s heard so much about, is nice. 

One day she says to him, “Do you think you’ll ever love me?”

Harry has to think about it for a second. He has been surrounded by so much love all his life that he can’t really identify what it feels like. It’s a part of life, like breathing is a part of life . He knows he would be sad if his parents got hurt. He knows he feels sad seeing them sad. He knows he would miss them if they went away.

Is that what loving someone is? Imaging the worst case scenarios, and dreading them?

Would he miss Ginny if she went away? Would he feel bad if she got hurt? No more than he would for anybody else, he thinks. Less than he would feel for Ron, and he definitely doesn’t want to date Ron.

“I don’t know,” he says eventually, because ‘no’ is a little harsh, and it’s so clearly not the answer Ginny is hoping for.

“Okay,” she says. “Then I think maybe we should break up.”

“Do you want to?”

“Not really. But I don’t want to be with someone who doesn’t like me as much as I like them either. I thought I could date other people before finding my soulmate, but maybe I can’t. Maybe I’m not cut out for it. I think it might be all or nothing for me.”

Harry blinks. All or nothing. What a strange concept.

*

Ron doesn’t speak to him for a week, but he shows up on Harry’s doorstep eventually.

“Sorry for being an idiot,” he says. They spend the next hour playing Mario Kart and trying to aim grapes into each other’s mouths. 

After dinner - because his parents never let a friend of Harry’s stay over without feeding them - Ron turns to him and sighs.

“Did you really not like her?” He asks.

“I did,” Harry admits. “But not enough.”

“Do you at least know that you’re bi now?”

“Yeah,” Harry tells him. “I like girls. Boobs and stuff.”

Ron wrinkles his nose. “Don’t talk about boobs when the only girl you’ve dated is my sister.”

Harry is still pretty miserable though. There are no new pictures of Tom circulating the web, at least, but Harry’s mood only gets worse when he finally speaks about his soulmark in an interview. Harry is at school, and he only finds out about it because Hermione hunts him down in the library and shoves her phone into his face.

“It was a mistake,” Tom is telling the world. “I should never have had so much to drink that I couldn’t think clearly. I’m very sorry to my soulmate, for the pain I must have caused. I hope they can forgive me.”

Harry’s forehead scrunches up. A black cloud hangs over his head and he must be radiating so much bitterness that Hermione and Ron don’t say a word. Everything about Tom’s statement was rehearsed, scripted, _fake._ It’s so obvious to Harry that Tom’s PR team told him to apologise, to be a good influence and denounce drinking. If he’s sorry at all, Harry can’t tell. 

“Great,” Harry mutters. “Thanks.”

Hermione sighs, and pats his back on her way out. Then she hesitates and looks back at him, sitting sad and alone.

“I have an idea,” she says cryptically. “Do you want me to do it?”

Harry, who has had enough of _riddles,_ just shrugs. “Do whatever you want,” he says. It’s only later that he wishes he could add, “Within reason.”

*

Draco finds him the next day in the boys’ bathroom. Harry washes his hands, turns around and shrieks. He is eye level with Draco’s grimacing mouth. 

“What the hell!”

“Trust me, I’m not happy about it either,” Draco says.

Harry rolls his eyes. “What are you doing, Malfoy?”

Draco is quiet for an unnervingly long time. Harry shifts uncomfortably, and considers darting past him to get to the exit. There’s something in Draco’s expression that roots him to the spot though. Something tells him he wants to hear Draco out.

“Show me your wrist.”

_“What?”_

_Or not,_ Harry thinks.

“Show me your wrist.”

“Fuck off,” Harry spits. “No. You’re not supposed to ask people that, idiot.”

“I’m not asking,” Draco says, like the bastard he is. “Would you just trust me, Potter? For once? I promise I don’t have anything nefarious planned.”

Harry doesn’t ask what nefarious means. He’s pretty sure Draco would only laugh at him. With caution that could only be reserved for a Malfoy, Harry lifts up his sleeve. He shouldn’t trust Draco - they’ve been rivals since they met, and unlike Ron, Harry doesn’t believe unresolved romantic tension has anything to do with it. 

“Hurry up,” Draco says with a dramatic sigh. “I’m a busy man, Potter. I can’t hang around all day.”

“We’re _fourteen.”_ Harry scowls. “What, do you have swimming lessons after school? Picture books to read?”

“At least I _can_ read.”

“Do you even know how annoying you are?”

Draco smirks. “Of course,” he says. “Now, are you going to show me that or not?”

Draco’s problem is not that he’s a stuck up prat, Harry thinks, although he undoubtedly is. Draco’s problem is that he acts as though he is entitled to the world and everybody in it. He raises his eyebrows and hurries Harry along as though it is not a question of if Harry will show him, but when. As question of how much time Harry will waste.

But, for all of his haughty superiority, Harry trusts him. Harry trusts him with this.

“Fine.” He shoves his wrist into Draco’s face and grits his teeth. He waits for Draco’s harsh laugh or strained breathing. He shivers in the silence– silence that stretches onwards for an eternity. Finally he turns his wrist inwards protectively, crosses his arms and demands, “What?”

Draco pinches the bridge of his nose. “Christ,” he says. “Only you, Potter. Only you.”

“What exactly is it that you wanted, Malfoy?”

“Nothing,” Draco says quickly. “Listen, I’m… I’m not doing this because I _like_ you, okay? I don’t.”

“Right.” Harry rolls his eyes. Even if Draco is an idiot most of the time, he usually makes more sense than this. Perhaps it’s worth hearing him out after all.

“I’m only doing this because I’m sick of seeing you wallow,” he continues.

“Okay.”

“And it means you’ll owe me in the future, alright?”

“Wait, hang on a second–”

“Here.” Draco holds out a scrap of paper, and when Harry doesn’t take it straight away he sighs dramatically and pushes it into Harry’s hands. “Just… don’t tell anybody, okay?” 

With that, he turns on his heel and marches out of the bathroom. He doesn’t even use the loo, which means he only came in here because he was following Harry. Creeper. Harry squints at the scrap of paper and tries to make words out in Draco’s fancy scrawl. It takes him a moment to realise it’s an Instagram handle.

@walpurgis_tom

*

It takes Harry another week to send a message. Honestly, he forgets about it for a while. It sits on his desk, hidden under a mountain of homework, and he only sees it again by the time the weekend rolls around.

When he looks it up, the profile is private. What the hell is Draco up to? Is this some sort of prank? He can’t think of any reason Malfoy would go to such great lengths to make fun of Harry when he could do it at school with a lot less hassle. 

It’s such a strange username, as well. And that name at the end: _Tom._ Is Draco setting him up with some Tom Riddle superfan? Now _that_ would be cruel.

Finally, he bites the bullet.

_Who is this?_

Surprisingly, it doesn’t take that long to get a reply. The guy must have been online.

_Harry?_

_Yep_

His name is in his profile. It’s not exactly a secret. It doesn’t mean anything.

_Harry Potter?_

_Could you just tell me who you are?? Draco didn’t tell me anything and I’m really confused :/_

The little message bubble pops up to say that the other person is typing, but after a few minutes of no response Harry is getting bored. He switches his phone off and goes downstairs to get something to eat. If Draco is going to be a mysterious prat, and whoever that account belongs to is going to be a mysterious prat, then Harry at the very least is not going to hang around waiting to be laughed at. He makes himself a bowl of soup, and takes it upstairs to eat in bed.

There is only one message waiting for him upon his return. A picture message. His forehead creases in confusion, and there’s a building suspicion in his chest. He does hope he’s not about to be greeted with a dick pic, because then he might actually kill Draco for setting him up with an asshole.

He opens the app. He opens the message. 

He drops his soup.

*

The summer passes by in a rush. At the start of the holidays, Harry always has so many plans, so many things he wants to do. He organises day trips with Ron and Hermione, outings to the beach with his family. When it comes down to it, he stays in his room for most of the break, staring mournfully out of the window at the grey sky. Summer is never all that cheerful in England. 

On the days that are sunny, Harry goes over to Ron house. It’s always busy there, and his parents are less likely to notice if the three of them slip away for a while. In between dealing with the twins’ latest prank and helping Percy with his uni applications, Molly and Arthur tend to get a bit frazzled.

Harry is worried at first that it’ll be awkward seeing Ginny again, but the first time he shows his face, she just smiles and asks him how he’s been. She’s dating Dean Thomas now. They aren’t soulmates, but they haven’t met their soulmates either, and they’re both happy to be each other’s all-or-nothing for the time being.

Harry thinks that’s kind of stupid. That’s not how all-or-nothing works. But he keeps it to himself. If it means he gets to be Ginny’s friend without any lingering bad blood, he’ll take the opportunity.

On Harry’s fifteenth birthday, he leads Ron and Hermione into the field behind the Weasleys’ house. The tall grass gives him a sense of privacy, of safety. He will keep these walls up around the three of them, so he can confide.

“I need to tell you something,” he says. “I’ve been talking to Tom.”

Ron blinks. “Tom?” He says. “Tom Riddle?”

“That’s the one.”

_“How?”_

Hermione coughs. “I may have… prompted Draco,” she admits. 

“That was you?” Harry doesn’t know what to say. It feels like he never knows what to say. He might cry. “What did you do?”

“I’m sorry,” she says in a rush. “I just knew that Tom and Draco’s aunt used to date, and I thought maybe Draco could ask her for Tom’s number. I wouldn’t have told him if the whole picture thing hadn’t happened. He already knew, Harry, I swear he did. I wouldn’t have done anything otherwise.”

Hermione bites her lip and looks down. Her cheeks are red. Her eyes are shiny with unshed years. In that moment, Harry feels such an overpowering rush of affection that he can’t swallow back a sob. He throws himself at her and wraps his arms right around her neck.

 _“Thank you,”_ he whispers. “Thank you. Thank you.”

Harry tells them everything. How he had messaged Tom, without knowing who he was. How Tom had sent him a picture, his face and his wrist held up next to it, Harry’s name written across in slanting curvature. He’d been speechless. He’d sent a picture back, the same picture, with Tom’s name across his wrist, and after that they just never stopped talking.

“So… what are you doing with him?” Ron asks eventually.

“What do you mean?”

“Just in general.” Ron shrugs. “I don’t know. I guess I’d just be pretty scared of messing things up.”

Hermione elbows him in the stomach and he complains about it loudly, and what little tension Ron’s words created dissipates immediately. Things go back to normal: easy and fun.

But Harry can’t stop thinking about it.

*

Because the truth is, he has no idea what he’s doing with Tom. He really doesn’t. They talk every day, and they talk for hours. They talk about school and work and music and TV shows and books they like. They talk about first crushes (an embarrassing topic, when Harry has to admit his first crush was Tom) and they talk about what Harry wants to do when he graduates. They talk about family. Tom tells him things he’s never spoken about publicly before. The amount of trust he must be putting in Harry is astounding, overwhelming, and it makes him feel breathless when he thinks about it for too long.

Harry finds out that Tom grew up in an orphanage. It wasn’t a good place. He started writing songs to get all of his anger and bitter resentment and feelings of rejection out of his head. He started singing them because his music teacher said he had a good voice. He started filming them because he wanted a way out of the orphanage, and no one would give him a job at fifteen.

By seventeen, he had enough money and popularity to move out on his own. And then he got an agent. And the rest is ancient history.

Harry tells Tom about himself as well. How he found Tom. How he was his first ever commenter. Tom takes a while to reply after that, and Harry knows what he must be thinking.

_You knew. All those years you knew, and you never said anything. I could have had my soulmate near me since I was fifteen years old but you decided to keep it to yourself. And I was all alone._

Guilt churns in Harry’s stomach. He feels awful. He deserves Tom’s anger.

But Tom never gets angry with him. Tom is only ever kind and helpful and patient with Harry, because in his eyes, Harry is a child. 

They never talk about relationships. They never talk about love, or how they are supposed to love each other. Harry never mentions Tom’s public partners, and Tom never asks about Harry’s potential girlfriends or boyfriends. They never discuss meeting up, or what they want from the future. Harry longs to know if Tom wants kids. He wants Tom to ask that about him too. 

But they never talk about it. And so Harry has no idea what he is really doing with Tom. 

  
  



	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM A LIAR AND THERE IS NOW A FOURTH CHAPTER :)))

Harry suffers through fifteen, and he suffers through sixteen. He takes his exams. He passes most of them, and Tom sends him a video to say congratulations. It makes Harry cry.

It feels as though the world has stopped turning. He’s getting older, but he doesn’t notice it happening. He’s getting sadder too, and he doesn’t notice that happening either. It sneaks up on him, the way he stops enjoying things, the way he rolls his eyes at the things he used to love. Christmas comes and goes; Harry spends the whole morning in bed. He gets up to eat, and then grabs his phone to call his friends. He used to love it with a passion that only children are capable of. 

Tom is busy for most of the year. He’s releasing another album, and then he’s going on tour again. His replies to Harry get later and later, and shorter and shorter. In turn, Harry forces himself to wait a full hour before responding, and then two, and then an entire day.

Maybe this is how relationships are broken, Harry thinks. Stubborn, prideful people, who are so deeply hurt.

Not that they had a relationship. Harry wouldn’t even go so far as to call it a friendship. Tom messages Harry on his birthday and at Christmas, and Harry does the same. It is more like speaking to a distant relative than a soulmate.

Harry starts up at school again, which is torture. He likes having free periods this time around, but A Levels are already so much harder than GCSEs had been and he can tell it’s going to take everything he’s got to pass them. Then he’ll have uni applications, and then he’ll have _uni…_

It goes on and on. A future he has no interest in. It’s terrifying, and breathtakingly sad.

It’s good seeing Hermione again though. Her family had gone on a sort of education holiday in Russia for most of the summer. She comes back with bruises on her neck and a secretive, tight lipped smirk. Ron and Harry had kicked around in his garden and played too much Xbox, watching too much TV. Sometimes, Harry wonders if Ron feels the same way he does. If he asked, would Ron look at him funny, or worse, laugh? 

He doesn’t ask. He’s not sure he could take the humiliation of being misunderstood.

They don’t have a lot of free periods together. Hermione is taking four subjects instead of three, so she is barely in the common room, and even at lunch she has a lot of clubs to go to. He doesn’t see her much. Everything is changing, and soon he stops asking where she is. Ron is still around, but it isn’t the same with only the two of them and they both know it. Talking about it would be painful, but not talking about it is just as bad. They sit there in silence, forcing cheer and knowing that the other is thinking the same thing.

 _Stubborn, prideful people,_ Harry thinks. _And a deep, deep loneliness._

The only positive is that Harry makes some new friends. A handful of people join the school sixth form and they’re surprisingly fun to hang out with when he isn’t busy with homework or lessons. Luna is a wildcard. He never knows when she’ll be there, or what subjects she’s taking. When he asks what her schedule is, she waves her hand airily and tells him that she does not live by a schedule. So that’s that.

Cedric is a little different. He’s a year older, but he joins in Year 12 as well. When Harry asks why, he squirms in his seat and says something about his family moving around a lot. It’s deliberately vague, so Harry doesn't push. Cedric is a lot of fun, and worryingly easy to talk to. He says all the right things and he always offers to listen, even though Harry never talks, even though he should have given up by now. He gets on with Ron and Hermione when he meets them, and he gets on with Harry’s parents.

He gets on with everybody, actually. Everyone at school loves Cedric. He has people calling his name and waving as he walks down a hallway. He has a dozen people wanting to be his lab partner in biology. He could be popular, and yet every day he chooses Harry. He chooses Harry.

Harry doesn’t even realise he has a crush on Cedric until Ron tells him.

“What do you mean?” He asks, alarmed. “I don’t have a crush on him. I don’t have a crush on anyone.”

Ron furrows his eyebrows. “Uh, no,” he says finally. “I’m pretty sure you do, actually. You get this look in your eye, whenever he talks. And you laugh at all his jokes.”

“I laugh at all Hermione’s jokes! It doesn’t mean I want to date her!”

Ron winces. “Mate,” he says. “We all laugh at Hermione’s jokes, so that she doesn’t feel bad.”

“Oh my god,” Hermione says, appearing behind him. “I don’t want _pity_ laughs. You’re both monsters.”

“I’m just telling Harry about his crush on Cedric,” Ron explains quickly. Hermione brightens visibly.

“Oh, that!” She says, and then turns to him. “Did you really not know? I thought you were more perceptive than that Harry, really.”

Harry scowls. “Ron’s right,” he says. “Your jokes suck.”

*

He opens his conversation with Tom for the first time in months.

He writes, _How do you know if you’re growing up wrong? How do you know if there’s something wrong with you?_

He doesn’t get a reply.

He finds out later that Tom was in Japan, nine hours ahead, fast asleep. Harry wishes it could be enough. He wishes he could stop feeling so damn guilty all the time.

*

The first proper party Harry goes to, he goes to because of Cedric. He’s not unpopular, but the invitation wouldn’t have been extended to him if not for their friendship. Hermione and Ron tag along as well, and Luna usually shows up to surprise them out of nowhere.

Lavender Brown’s parents are clearly rich. Not rich in the same way that the Malfoys are rich, but they have an indoor pool and a liquor cabinet full of fancy alcohol, which Harry thinks makes them pretty well off. She grins at Cedric, and waves unenthusiastically at the rest of them. Then she looks at Ron and double takes. Hermione stifles a snort.

“Oh,” she says. “Hey. Ron, isn’t it?”

Cedric leans in, close, close enough for his breath to tickle the nape of Harry’s neck. “Come on,” he whispers. “Let’s… leave those two alone.”

He takes Harry’s elbow and guides him through the house. The music is already giving him a headache, he can feel is vibrating through the floor. Why did he agree to this? He hates parties. Most of these people don’t even like him, and now he has to spend the rest of the evening pressed up against Cedric and having to pretend that he doesn’t want to–

“Here!” Cedric pushes a drink into Harry’s hand suddenly, and Harry takes it speechlessly. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah!” Harry struggles to be heard over the music. “I’ve just never…”

“Oh.” Cedric’s eyes dart down to the drink and then up. He’s so kind, Harry thinks. So warm. “You don’t have to get drunk. It’s just a dumb thing people do at parties. I won’t if you won’t.”

Harry looks at Ron and Lavender, still talking. He looks at Hermione, who has found Luna by now. He looks at Cedric, who is still watching him with a small, private smile, holding his hand out like he’s waiting for Harry to take it.

Harry takes it.

”I will if you will,” he says.

The rest of the night is a blur. Harry remembers having one drink, and then another and another. He doesn’t remember the moment he realised he was drunk, but he remembers tripping over the carpet and stumbling into Cedric’s side, both of them giggling like kids, leaning in to kiss him slow and sure. He remembers the song changing, something agonisingly familiar and unwelcome coming on, he remembers drinking more just to block it out.

He has no memory of taking his phone out to drunk text anybody, but, he supposes, it must have happened at some point.

*

Harry is going to die of embarrassment, if this hangover doesn’t kill him first. He has no idea how he got home - maybe Hermione drove? She likes to stay sober more than Ron, and Luna seems to be in a permanent state of inebriation so nobody would let her behind a wheel - but he does know that, when he gets downstairs, his parents are going to murder him. Absolutely murder him.

The three things that Harry will die of today are: embarrassment, hangover, angry parents. Not a great start to the morning. 

Tom is not online. This, at least, is a relief. He doesn’t think he could handle Tom’s concerned messages after the train wreck that was last night.

And, just like a train wreck, slow motion and awful, Harry can’t stop looking. His face burns as he reads through the short conversation he and Tom had last night.

_Do you live me?_

_What?_

_Love sorry_

_Do you love me?_

_I mean like I know you dont but_

_I just dont get yyo_

_youact like youndont even like me_

There is a long pause, in which Tom must have realised what was happening. As if Harry hadn’t made it obvious enough with his blundering typos and blunt questions. He blames his friends entirely for this. Who lets a friend drink and text anyway? They practically set him up for failure. He’s never going to another party ever again.

Finally, a whole ten minutes later, Tom had replied.

_I’m very fond of you Harry_

_Are you at home?_

_Nnnope_

_Haha_

_How are you planning on getting home?_

_Harry?_

_Can you please at least text me when you get home_

Harry hadn’t replied. At that point he had obviously become too crosseyed to even type properly, and he’d probably fallen asleep on the bathroom floor as well. 

His parents are definitely going to kill him first. 

In order to prolong the inevitable for as long as possible, he takes a shower. Standing under the warm spray of water does make him feel a bit better, and after drying off and changing into his cosiest, comfiest clothes, Harry thinks he might be able to face his parents.

“Mum?” He calls, heading downstairs. The house has been surprisingly quiet all morning. He’d been grateful for it as he was waking up with a hangover, but now he just feels suspicious. “Dad?”

“In here,” James calls back from the living room. Harry frowns. There’s an extra pair of shoes by the front door that Harry doesn’t recognise, and his parents have been quiet all morning, and now they’ve convened in the living room.

_Something is going on._

Do they know? Is Harry about to get the underage-drinking-is-bad talk? He’s _so_ not in the mood for that.

“Before you say anything,” Harry starts, pushing the living room door open. “I really didn’t mean to drink so–”

Harry’s mouth snaps shut.

Tom is sitting on the sofa. He’s sitting on the sofa in between Harry’s parents, who are now both watching Harry with matching expressions of guilt and concern.

What the fuck?

“What the fuck?” He says.

“Harry–”

“What is he doing here?” He takes a step backwards. “What are you _doing_ here?”

Tom stands up. He’s shorter than Harry remembers, or maybe Harry is just taller. He looks tired and resigned, as though he was expecting Harry’s outburst. That alone is enough for Harry to force a sense of calm.

“I was worried about you,” he says. “When you didn’t reply. Draco gave me your address.”

Shit. _Shit._ He’s never even told his parents about his conversations with Tom. They don’t even know he and Tom are in touch. He thinks about how shocked they must have been when an international celebrity showed up on their doorstep with no warning and, bizarrely, he starts to laugh. Maybe he’s lost his mind. 

“Well, I’m fine,” he says. “Thanks for coming, I guess.”

Tom doesn’t reply, and he doesn’t move. Harry can feel his parents’ gaze on him, on them both, and it’s both comforting and suffocating.

“Let’s go upstairs,” he blurts out.

Lily stands up immediately. “I don’t think–”

“Mum,” Harry says, trying to convey exactly how he’s feeling just by looking at her. It’s difficult, when he barely knows how he feels himself. “Please.”

Slowly, with James’ hand curling around hers, she sits back down. “You’re going to have a lot of explaining to do later on, okay?”

Harry inclines his head. “I know.”

“Don’t be too long,” she says, and then, horrifyingly, “And the door stays open!”

There’s a hint of a wicked smile in her voice that suggests she knows _exactly_ what she’s doing. Harry doesn’t stick around to gage Tom’s reaction to that - he just turns on his heel and heads for the door, and then the stairs.

He doesn’t need to look behind him to know that Tom is following.

*****

Being in his bedroom with Tom is the strangest moment of Harry’s life. Even stranger than standing in that queue and meeting him for the first time. Seeing Tom, amazing, famous, beautiful Tom, sitting on Harry’s childhood bed with the spiderman sheets and looking at all his dumb posters on the wall… it feels like an out of body experience. Tom doesn’t look any more comfortable with the situation than Harry does. That, ironically enough, eases some of the tension in his chest.

“So,” Harry says, shutting the door gently behind himself. “You’re here.”

“Here I am.” Tom smiles, tight lipped. They stew in silence for a little longer. Harry still has a throbbing headache and he is in no position to impress Tom. As far as first impressions go, Harry has already done an awful job.

“What are you doing here?” He asks finally. “I assume you didn’t just come to get a look at my bedroom.”

“To be fair, I had no idea you’d take me to bed so quickly.” It takes Harry a second to realise it’s a joke, and he barks with laughter before he can stop himself. Tom is laughing too, quietly, watching Harry with shining eyes. Then that brightness dims, and his smile dies on his lips. “Sorry,” he mutters. “That was inappropriate.”

“Tom.” Harry sits down next to him. He wants to reach out and take Tom’s hand, wants it with a deep seated desperation that he didn’t know he was capable of, but he doesn’t. He folds his hands in his lap and keeps them there. “What are you doing? Why are you here?”

Tom takes a breath. He has never struck Harry as the sort of person to get uncomfortable easily, but he looks uncomfortable now. He can’t stop his leg from bouncing.

“I was worried,” he says at last. “About you. About the way we left things. I didn’t even know if you’d made it home safe. Anything could have happened.”

“In Little Whinging?” Harry raises an eyebrow.

“Anywhere, Harry,” Tom says, so sincerely that Harry almost apologises. “Bad things can happen anywhere.”

“I know,” Harry says softly. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have joked.”

“I just– I didn’t _know._ I didn’t have your phone number. I couldn’t contact your friends. I couldn’t contact your _parents._ And you seemed so upset. And I didn’t want to leave things like that.”

Harry nods, considering this. “Well,” he says. “I don’t know. Unless your answers have changed, I don’t see how you could cheer me up.”

He holds his breath. Honestly, he doesn’t know what he’s hoping for. It’s ridiculous to wish that Tom came here today to sweep him off his feet. But that’s what he’s wishing for. He thinks he would let everything go, all the hurt and the sadness of the past. He would let it all go if Tom came here, finally, ready to love him. 

But Tom sighs, pained, and Harry’s chest deflates. “You’re so young, Harry,” he says. “You need more time.”

“Don’t tell me what I need,” he snaps.

“Fine. Then _I_ need more time.”

“You’ve had time. You’ve had twenty four years. What else are you waiting for?”

“Jesus, Harry, you act like I’m ancient. I’m still young too, you know? I’m still– I’m still trying to figure everything out. I’m still trying to figure out what I want.”

“I’m your _soulmate.”_ Fuck. _Fuck._ Tears dampen Harry’s cheeks and his voice breaks on the last word. “Why don’t you want me?”

And then he’s pressing forward, fisting Tom’s t-shirt at the collar and forcing their lips together, pressing closer and closer like he can crawl under Tom’s skin if he can just get close enough. 

For one blissful, heart stopping moment, Harry thinks Tom is going to kiss him back. Then he wrenches away and stands up, takes two steps backwards so that the distance between them feels colossal. 

“What the _fuck?”_ Tom spits, wiping angrily at his face. Harry can’t tell if he’s brushing away tears or trying to remove the traces of Harry from his mouth. “You can’t just _do that.”_

Harry sits still. One wrong word and he’ll crumble.

“Harry, you can’t just do that without asking people.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. He can’t look. He can’t stand to see the disappointed look on Tom’s face. “I don’t know why I did that.”

Tom sits down heavily. He drops his head into his hands for a few long minutes, and when he emerges again his eyes are suspiciously red rimmed. 

“I’m sorry too,” he says. “Maybe coming here was a mistake.”

“I have a boyfriend.”

Harry cannot for the life of him figure out why he just said that. It’s not true. Not really. He and Cedric kissed once, drunkenly and at a party, and they certainly didn’t have any conversation where they decided they were dating. Maybe there is something bad in Harry. Maybe there is a cruel, vindictive darkness inside him, because he wants it to hurt Tom. He wants Tom to be upset about this. He wants to know Tom cares.

Tom sits up slowly. He blinks. “Oh,” he says, and nothing else.

Harry sniffles. “So I shouldn’t have kissed you.”

“Right.”

“Because I have a boyfriend.”

Tom’s face does a funny twitching thing. His eyes narrow and his nose scrunches up like he’s smelled something foul. It only lasts for a second but it’s there, and it’s real, and as far as Harry is concerned it’s _proof._

“I’m happy for you,” he says dully. “That’s wonderful.”

“Is it?” He’s pushing his luck, but for once in his life he wants Tom to be totally honest with him.

“I don’t know what you want me to say. I want you to be happy.”

“I want you to tell me the truth.”

Tom looks at him. His face is a blank, impenetrable mask. “You want the truth?” He asks. “Are you sure?”

Breathlessly, Harry says, “Tell me.”

“Then no. No, Harry, I’m not happy. I don’t want you to date someone else. I don’t want you to date anyone else. I don’t want you to have a fucking high school boyfriend. Alright? Is that what you wanted to hear?”

_Yes. Yesyesyes._

“Why? You’ve had relationships already.”

Tom laughs humorlessly. “I know. I know, Harry. I’m a fucked up person. I’m unfair. I still don’t want you to.”

“But you won’t date me either.”

Here, for the first time, Tom hesitates. When he speaks, he speaks slowly, like he is very carefully and methodically picking his words. “You’re young,” he says. “And you still have a lot of new experiences to look forward to. I won’t burden you with a relationship before you’ve ever even lived.”

Harry presses closer. He takes Tom’s hand in his and Tom doesn’t pull away. “But you’re making that decision. _You_ decided that it would be a burden. _I_ didn’t. You haven’t asked for my opinion at all.”

Tom’s eyes flutter closed. He leans his forehead against Harry’s, his breath warm against Harry’s cheek. It’s so surprising that he almost jerks backwards. Tom is closer than he’s ever been before. 

“You don’t get to have an opinion,” Tom says. “Until you have all the facts. And you don’t yet. You won’t for a while, Harry. Do you really want to go to college with a built in boyfriend? You want to miss out on the proper experience? And it’s– it’s different for us. You know it would be. Because of who I am.”

Harry can’t reply. He’s too busy screaming _us us us_ inside his head. Truthfully, he never thought there would be an _us._

“Then let’s be friends,” Harry says. He pulls away slightly, even though it kills to do it, and grips Tom’s hand even tighter. “Let’s be friends. Let’s talk. Actually, properly talk, like we did at the beginning. I don’t just want to get a ‘happy birthday’ once a year and let that be the end of it. If you’re so determined to wait, then I at the very least demand your friendship.”

Tom crooks a smile. “Oh, you _demand_ it, do you?”

Harry nods decisively. “You’re not allowed to say no, by the way. You’re my friend whether you like it or not.”

“Even though I’m a horrible person who dates people just to piss you off?”

Harry winces. “I doubt that was the only reason,” he says. “And if you do start dating someone else, I want you to tell me, okay? Preferably before it hits the front page.”

Tom smiles at him. “Just so you know,” he says. “All those people you saw me with, all those pictures people took, they didn’t mean anything. Most were just hook ups. Some were my friends, and I do care for them, but it’s nothing compared– it’s just nothing, okay? It was just sex.”

A strange mix of emotions bubbles in the pit of Harry’s stomach. Relief, that he isn’t going to be replaced in Tom’s heart. Vicious satisfaction that Tom really is _his_ after all, that all those people don’t compare to Harry. Frustration, that Tom could talk so callously about the people he’s slept with. Hurt, that he did it publicly, deliberately, to get to Harry. And guilt. Guilt, because…

“Tom,” he says. “Cedric - my boyfriend - he does mean something to me. Okay? I do care about him. Maybe it’s not the same, and– maybe it won’t last forever.” He sees the tight set of Tom’s jaw and says, “It _won’t_ last forever. I know that there’s an expiry date on this. But I do care about him. So I can’t just drop him like he’s nothing and come running whenever you decide–”

“I know.” Tom nods, resigned. “I know. I did mean what I said before, Harry, even if the rest of it was a lie. I really do want you to be happy.”

Harry blinks back tears. “Then… friends?” He holds out his hand.

“Won’t your boyfriend mind?”

“He’ll understand. He’s a nice person. Way nicer than you.”

Tom laughs breathlessly. “You’re a little shit, you know that? I bet you engineered this entire situation.”

“Oh, am I busted?” Harry rolls his eyes and pokes at Tom’s arm. “Are we friends or not?”

Tom looks from Harry’s face to his outstretched hand to his exposed wrist. What does he see, Harry wonders, when he looks at Harry’s soulmark? Does he see a brand? Or a promise?

Tom takes his hand, clasps it tight and holds on for a fraction of a second too long. “Friends,” he says, and smiles.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS IS IT. THE END HAS COME. I PROMISE. 
> 
> (Phew!)
> 
> Also updated tags! Please check that out :’)
> 
> I hope everyone enjoyed! Thanks for sticking around through all the chapter revisions lol. Also let me know if you catch any errors in it, because this is almost 8000 words and I’m too tired to proofread

Harry stumbles out of the exam hall feeling, for the first few minutes, like his soul just left his body. He’s exhausted, and if he ever has to look at another textbook in his life he’s going to vomit. 

And then he looks up from where his feet are shuffling across the floor, and he catches sight of Hermione and Ron and Cedric bouncing up and down on their heels, clutching hands, red faced with excitement, and it hits him. He’s _done._ He never has to come back to this school in his life, even if he fails all of his exams. Joy builds like a steadily cresting wave in his chest. He feels _giddy._

“Fuck yeah!” Ron yells when Harry is close enough. Hermione punches his shoulder but she’s grinning too, a smile that lights up her entire face. 

Harry throws himself at them. They catch him easily, all crowding together. He feels their happiness, their excitement, as if it was his own. He never thought he’d be excited for the future, but maybe that isn’t what this is. Maybe he’s just happy about the end, a closed chapter that he never has to revisit. He can keep all the best bits: his friends, his memories, and the rest can go in the trash along with his unnecessary workbooks. Sure, he might feel sad about it one day; he might look back with nostalgia and long for his childhood again, but right now he’s overwhelmed with relief. That’s something he’s learned to do lately, thanks to his therapist, he’s learned to live in the moment. 

There’s a sudden, terrifying pressure landing on his back and then arms wrapping around his neck. Luna’s hair tickles his neck. She had to do her exam in a different room than the rest of them, but presence means they can finally, for the last ever time, get out of here.

“How’d it go?” Hermione asks Luna. Her smile hasn’t dimmed a bit.

“Oh, you know.” Luna slips off Harry’s back and pats his shoulder. “We’ll see.”

Luna has always been so forthcoming. 

“Well,” Ron says, disentangling himself from the hug slowly. “I don’t know about you guys, but I could really do with some pizza right now. We’re walking down, right?”

“Of course.” Harry doesn’t think he’s ever seen Hermione so excited for greasy takeaway pizza before, and they’ve had lots of it. Then her eyes settle on a spot over Harry’s shoulder, and she nods respectfully. Harry turns to see Draco making his way out of the hall, flanked by Blaise and Pansy.

“See you next year, Granger,” he says with a smirk. And then, “Harry, see you… never again, hopefully.”

Harry crosses his arms. “You mean I’m not invited to your birthday party?”

Draco scowls. “That will never happen again,” he says. “And you won’t be coming to the Christmas party either if you keep bringing it up.”

He’s off like a shot after that, cheeks dusted pink, Pansy poking his side with a smirk. Ron watches them go for a beat and then rolls his eyes.

“I can’t believe you’re keeping in touch with that idiot,” he says. “This was literally the prime opportunity to get rid of him.”

“Was I supposed to base my uni choice on where Draco Malfoy was going?” Hermione sighs with the long suffering impatience of somebody who has had this argument a million times before. Harry tends to tune out their bickering after a while. 

Cedric is at his side suddenly; wrapping an arm around his waist and murmuring, “Shall we go on ahead?” His lips brush the shell of Harry’s ear.

“Yeah,” Harry says. “They could go on like this forever.”

“It’s kinda cute, don’t you think?”

“Is this your way of saying you think we should argue more?” 

Cedric plants a sloppy kiss on his cheek and Harry shrieks, shoves him away with a hand on his chest. “You’re gross,” he complains, wiping his face with his sleeve as Cedric watches and laughs. “Get your own pizza.”

Before Cedric can retort, Harry’s phone starts to buzz in his pocket, a steady vibration against his leg. He’s had it turned off throughout the exam and he hadn’t had a chance to look at it before Ron and Hermione were crowding him. Now, when he picks it out, the screen lights up with two missed calls and a third incoming, all from Tom.

“Shit,” Harry says, looking to his friends. “I’ve gotta take this. You guys go ahead, okay? I’ll catch up.”

Ron sighs dramatically, but lets it go when Harry promises he won’t be more than five minutes. Hermione and Luna follow after him, arms looped together, but Cedric lingers at his side. His face is carefully relaxed and his eyes remain warm and friendly. Harry doesn’t deserve him.

“You want me to wait for you?” He asks.

“No, it’s okay.” Harry takes his hand and squeezes it. “You go on ahead.”

Cedric nods. “Is it Tom?” He asks. His voice is even and perfectly calm. They’ve had this conversation plenty of times, but Harry still feels awkward whenever it comes up. He shouldn’t really. Cedric has a soulmate too, and they both know that what they have at the moment is a temporary thing. Maybe the difference is that Cedric is still waiting for his soulmate, and Harry talks to his every day.

Harry’s silent, apologetic smile is enough of an answer. Cedric hums and kisses Harry’s cheek wordlessly, before he jogs to catch up with the others. Harry watches him go, something helplessly sad stretching taut in his chest, like a rope attached to Cedric’s retreating form. Then he sucks in a sharp breath and answers the call.

“Well?” Tom says straight away. “Should I say congratulations or better luck next time?”

“I am _never_ sitting through that again,” Harry says. “So don’t bother with ‘better luck next time’.”

“But?” Tom prompts.

A grin twists Harry’s lips and he ducks his head, oddly shy even though Tom can’t see him. “But… I’m pretty sure I passed.”

Tom’s laugh is infectious. Harry is also pretty sure he’s clapping his hands, but he’s too happy to call him out. “Thank fuck for that. Are you celebrating?”

“My friends and I are gonna go get pizza. And probably drunk, as well.”

“Oh, did I miss your birthday then?”

Harry rolls his eyes. “Oh my god, you’re such a hypocrite. My birthday is literally a few weeks away, anyway. What are you gonna do, tell my parents?”

“Harry, if it meant they’d like me more, I would narc on you in a heartbeat.”

Harry slaps a hand over his mouth to stop himself from giggling so obnoxiously. “Fuck you,” he grins. “Are you still coming down, then? For my birthday?”

“Oh, I’ll have to check my schedule. July 31st is a busy day for birthdays, y’know?” Tom says, but Harry can hear the smile in his voice. “My agent’ll get back to you on that.”

“Uh huh. Well, as long as she tells me what kind of caviar you prefer then that’s fine.”

“You get the caviar, I’ll bring the champagne?”

Harry snorts. His cheeks hurt from smiling so much, and even though he promised Ron five minutes, he doesn’t want to hang up. There’s an empty, aching sensation in his chest that will only get worse when he can no longer hear Tom’s voice. 

“You’re such an asshole, you know that?”

“Of course,” Tom says, and then sighs loudly, as though maybe he’s only just waking up. It _is_ only half ten in the morning, and he likely only went to sleep a few hours ago. Harry’s face floods with warmth at the thought of Tom in bed, shirtless, voice low and raspy from sleep. He bites his lip.

“Am I keeping you?” Tom continues, sounding more alert now. “You should go and have fun with your friends, Harry. You only get to live this once.”

“Ugh. I get it, new experiences and all that shit. It’s not like we’re on a schedule. We can hang out any time. We’ve got the rest of the summer, now.”

“Yep,” Tom says. “So do we. Call me tonight instead. I’ll even say hi to your dad.”

“You’d be lucky,” Harry says, but he shoulders his backpack and heads towards the exit. Very faintly in the distance, Luna’s pale blonde hair streams in the light breeze. Cedric’s tall frame bobs up and down with each step. “I’ll call you tonight then? Is ten alright?”

“Better make it nine, if you can. I’m in Russia at the moment.”

Harry misses a step. “Oh,” Harry says. “Okay. Cool. Russia. Cool.”

Tom huffs. “Don’t pretend you don’t stalk me online,” he says, and that’s as far as he gets before Harry hangs up. 

*

Turns out, Tom was serious about the champagne. Not so much the caviar, which is a relief more than anything else, but when he shows up on their doorstep with ridiculous sunglasses covering half his face and his hood pulled low over his forehead, he’s holding the fanciest bottle Harry has ever seen. Even his dad is impressed.

“Jesus, Tom,” James says, marvelling at it. “How much did this cost you?”

“You don’t wanna know,” Tom says. He opens his mouth as though to say something else, but Harry is already hurtling in from the garden and throwing himself at Tom’s chest.

They’ve seen each other in person only twice since that first meeting where they agreed to be friends. It should be awkward, flying into Tom’s arms like this, he shouldn’t feel comfortable enough to rest his head on Tom’s chest and breathe in deeply as though he’s trying to commit Tom’s scent to memory. 

But he does. And if his parents weren’t in the room, and if his friends weren’t filtering in behind him, he probably wouldn’t let go for a long time. 

Lily clears her throat pointedly, and Harry only gets to feel Tom’s warm hands rubbing up and down the length of his back for about two seconds before they’re separating. Harry’s whole body is on fire from that contact alone. Tom looks just as cool and collected as he did when he came in, but his shirt is wrinkled and there’s the faintest hint of a blush over his cheeks that you’d only be able to see if you were really looking. Unfortunately, everybody here is.

“Oh, shit,” Ron blurts out, and then, at Lily’s raised eyebrows, “I mean– uh, _oh wow!”_

Hermione hides a snort behind her hand, but she looks a little flushed and flustered in front of Tom as well. Luna is smiling dazedly and Cedric–

Cedric comes up behind Harry and very deliberately doesn’t touch him. 

In another life, Harry thinks, he could have loved Cedric so much. They could have been crazy about each other. He’s such a good person, and he deserves to have his soulmate and love them and be able to touch them in public whenever he wants, even if it’s only to squeeze their shoulder.

Not for the first time, Harry is hit by the overwhelming reality of his situation. He will break up with Cedric at the end of this summer. He has to. He can’t go to uni with a boyfriend that isn’t even his soulmate, and Cedric deserves better than that too. 

But it also hits him, surrounded by his family and his friends, that one day, he’s actually going to be with Tom. Before, it just hadn’t seemed real. They’d talked about it and they’d negotiated but it had always seemed like such an unrealistic, far away concept. So unlikely, that something good might actually happen to him. So unlikely, that he might actually get what he wants.

“You must be Cedric,” Tom says, thrusting his hand out. His smile is too thin, his eyes don’t hold the same warmth they did when he spoke to Harry. These are the only indications that he’s on edge, and something light and happy swells in Harry’s chest. 

“That’s me,” Cedric replies, voice as chipper as ever. “And you’re Tom. It’s great to meet you. Harry never stops talking about you.”

Harry whirls on him, mouth hanging open in utter betrayal. “That is _not_ true!” He cries, and then turns to Tom. “That is _not_ true.”

But Tom is watching him carefully, a smile tugging at his lips, eyes bright and full of unspoken affection. Whatever. Maybe Harry will let the slander slide, just this once.

Dinner, surprisingly enough, is lots of fun. Harry is the youngest of the group and now that he’s officially eighteen, it means all of them are. Lily serves the champagne with a knowing smile. When she gets to Tom, he covers the glass with his hand hurriedly.

“None for me, thanks,” he says. 

“Oh!” Lily pales a little, and then smiles. “Of course. I’m so sorry, how could I have forgotten that?”

“Maybe you’ve had too much yourself. I should finish that glass…”

She smacks James’ hand away from her drink with a fond roll of her eyes. “I’m not falling for that one again,” she says. And then, “Four months, isn’t it, Tom?”

“That’s right,” he says with a strained smile. “Almost to the day.”

Harry finds Tom’s foot under the table and gives it a friendly, supportive kick. He wants to hug Tom again. He wants to take his hand and run away and tell him how his heart is bursting with pride for everything that he’s accomplished. 

He can’t exactly ditch his own birthday party though, so he settles for playing footsie under the table.

Afterwards there’s cake and charades and Lily passing around embarrassing baby photos that Harry does his best to snatch up. It’s enough to have tears prickling at his eyes, seeing everyone he loves gathered into one room, safe and happy and having fun. He’s totally drained when the time comes for everybody to go home, but his heart sinks all the same.

Cedric leaves first, on foot because his house is only a few streets away. When he comes to say goodbye, he sneaks a surreptitious glance over his shoulder before he plants a chaste kiss on Harry’s cheek. Harry freezes and, on instinct, seeks Tom out. Tom is already looking.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?” Cedric whispers. When Harry nods, he calls goodbye to everybody in the living room and heads for the door. It’s awful, but Harry doesn’t relax until he’s heard the click of the latch falling into place and he’s sure Cedric has gone.

“We better order some taxis for the rest of you then,” James says eventually, heaving himself up from the sofa.

Tom stands up too. “I can take them,” he says, an offer which surprises even Harry. “I haven’t been drinking, and they’ll all fit in my car.”

James looks to Lily first, who shrugs. “If everyone’s happy with that,” she says. “Thank you, Tom.”

“I’ll go too,” Harry blurts out, and then wilts under the sudden attention. His motives are embarrassingly transparent. “I mean– just, y’know, to make sure everyone gets home safe. Of course.”

“Of course,” Lily says, smirking. “Do try and have him back before midnight, Tom.”

 _“Mum!”_ Harry hisses, face blotchy red, arms flapping at his sides. Tom just laughs and drops a hand casually onto his shoulder, squeezes. It’s like a brand against his skin, searing hot, lingering long after he removes the touch.

Tom’s car, thankfully, is pretty average. They’d turn a few heads if he drove them around the neighbourhood in a stretched limo. Harry slides into the passenger seat before anyone else can snatch that place up. Luna and Hermione bundle together into the back with Ron pressed between them, eyes wide and panicked.

“Uh, can I swap with you?” He asks Luna. She just giggles and pats his shoulder.

“You’re gonna have to tell me where to go,” Tom says softly, so only Harry can hear. In the filtering light from the street lamps outside, he practically glows. Harry can’t take his eyes off him.

It’s a quiet journey, broken up only by Harry’s occasional directions. Hermione gets out of the car with Ron with a vague explanation of staying the night and Luna, when they pull up outside her house, kisses them both on the cheek to thank them. After that, they sit in silence for a few long minutes, idling at the curb.

“Thanks for coming,” Harry says eventually. “I know you’re busy.”

“It’s your eighteenth,” Tom replies with a shrug. “I wasn’t going to miss it. You’re a proper legal adult now.”

Harry smiles thinly. “I guess I am. Kinda terrifying, isn’t it?”

“You never get used to it. _I’m_ not even used to it yet.” He runs a hand over his face, looking pale and exhausted, dark circles under his eyes. Harry fights against the urge to tuck him up in bed and sleep at his side. “I’m glad you had a good day, though. Your last birthday living at home.”

“It’s weird,” Harry says. “Do I really have to live on my own now? Like, without my _family?”_ To his horror, tears brim in his eyes and slide down his cheeks. He wipes them away hastily.

“You really do,” Tom says, barely audible, with a sad smile. “Harry…”

But Harry can’t stand it any longer, the tension, the ache in his chest, the distance between them. He unbuckles his seatbelt and lurches forward in one swift movement; Tom is so close, his mouth _right there,_ and Harry has never wanted to kiss someone more. He stops though, just centimetres away, as he remembers the last time he did this, and Tom’s reaction.

He shuts his eyes and breathes deeply to calm himself. His hands are trembling so he curls one around Tom’s shoulder and tucks the other against his chest.

“Please, Tom,” he breathes. “Can I?”

Tom doesn’t reply. He cups Harry’s face and leans in, brushes their mouths together, takes Harry’s lip between his teeth, grips the nape of his neck with his free hand. He’s panting into Harry’s mouth, kissing him harder and deeper and more insistent until Harry swings a leg over his lap and straddles him.

Tom breaks away. “Fuck,” he gasps, his lips deliciously red. “We shouldn’t.”

“I know,” Harry says, pressing their chests together.

“Harry, we said…”

“I know what we said.” How could he forget? It’s haunted him every day since they had that conversation. He buries his face in Tom’s neck and breathes deeply. Tom’s arms wrap around his back, holding him steady.

“You have a boyfriend, Harry,” Tom says quietly, rubbing comforting circles into his back. “You have Cedric. You don’t want to ruin a friendship forever for something that–”

Harry’s shoulders curl inwards. He knows. He _knows_ that. Cedric is a wonderful person and Harry–

Harry _cheated_ on him. Harry kissed someone else. Harry doesn’t deserve him or his kindness. Tom is right: he’ll be lucky if Cedric wants to be his friend at all after this.

But he has to ask. Some cruel and selfish part of him has to know.

“Something that what?”

Tom sighs. He kisses the top of Harry’s head and says, “Something that’s a sure thing. Alright? It’s not now or never. You have me forever.”

“But not now. Not yet.” He tries not to sound bitter, but his words are clipped and his voice wavers pathetically.

“No,” Tom agrees. “Not yet. Not yet.”

*

Harry breaks up with Cedric the next day. He asks to meet him at the park and they sit on the swing set that’s entirely too small for them, rocking back and forth while Harry builds the courage to speak.

It’s quiet for a long time. Then he says, “I’m so sorry.”

Cedric knows what’s coming. Mercifully, he doesn’t make Harry say it. “It’s alright,” he says. “I kind of saw it coming. I guess I just thought we’d have the summer, at least.”

So Cedric takes it well. Of course he does, because he is a much better person than Harry and he isn’t the sort of person to hold a grudge. Harry is weighed down with guilt.

“I’m sorry,” is all he can say. He says it so much that he’s sick of hearing the words himself.

“Don’t,” Cedric says, sighing. “Just… don’t. Okay? Don’t tell me you’re sorry.”

“Okay.” Harry looks down at his feet.

“Can I just ask– please, be honest with me here, okay? Just tell me the truth. Did something happen last night? After I left? With–” he looks around before he says it, lowers his voice as though a crowd of paparazzi might be hiding in the bushes. “With Tom?”

Harry had been dreading this question. He knew Cedric would ask, and he knows he has to tell the truth. He owes him that much, at least.

“We kissed,” he admits. Cedric nods, as though he was expecting it. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry, Cedric.”

“What did I say about apologising?”

“Sorry,” Harry says hurriedly. They share a look, and then a laugh. Things are almost normal. 

“I shouldn’t have started anything,” Harry laments. “I shouldn't have started this. Not when I knew…”

“If you’re going down that route, I should never have agreed to anything either. I knew you’d choose him, Harry. It’s alright that you choose him.”

“You’re being too nice.”

“Do you want me to yell at you?” Cedric snorts. “I can, if you want.”

Harry’s smile dies on his lips. “Are we okay, then? Like, are we still friends? I understand if you don’t wanna see me anymore.”

“Who would get to keep the kids in the divorce, then?”

Harry laughs fondly, eyes wet. “Ron and Hermione are a package deal,” he says. “You can have weekends and Christmas. How does that sound?”

Cedric slides gracefully off the swing and moves in front of Harry, tilting his chin up with a gentle hand. He kisses him softly, sweetly, for the last time. He doesn’t ask first, and Harry doesn’t know whether he prefers it that way or not. 

“Sounds good,” he murmurs. “We’re okay, Harry. We’re still friends, alright? I just… maybe we should have a break. Not see each other for a while. Is that okay?”

“Whatever you need,” Harry rushes to say. “Whatever you want.” 

*

He doesn’t see Cedric for another week. He does, however, see Hermione. She barges into his room after a few days of miserable wallowing and shows no pity when he tries to crawl back under his duvet.

“Leave me be,” he complains, curling up into a ball when it becomes obvious that he won’t get his blanket back. “Leave me to die.”

“Stop being a baby.” Hermione climbs onto the bed next to him and sits with crossed legs.

“No,” Harry replies grumpily.

“I got the strangest message from Cedric this morning.”

“No.”

“And I thought it was a joke at first, because there’s no way my best friend would break up with his boyfriend without telling me, right?”

“Hermione…”

“Except I text you and you don’t reply. I get to your house and your parents tell me you haven’t left your room in three days.”

“Listen…”

“Harry, what the _hell?_ You cheated on Cedric? Seriously? And– and you didn’t _tell me?”_

Harry scrunches his nose up, puzzled and sleepy. “I don’t know what you’re more offended at, now. Is it that I didn’t tell you?”

She hits his arm and a resounding _slap_ echoes around the room. “It’s both!” She exclaims. “I really don’t want to lecture you, but what the fuck?”

Finally, finally, Harry pushes himself up onto his elbows. The sudden vertical position after so long spent lying down is dizzying at first and he takes a moment to rake his hands through his hair, smoothing it down and trying to feel like a real person again. It would help to have a shower, but he isn’t there just yet.

“I know, alright? It was a horrible, stupid thing to do. I like Cedric just as much as I ever did. I didn’t stop liking him, Hermione.”

Hermione sighs and loops an arm around his neck to give him an awkward hug. He probably stinks, because she’s keeping a careful distance and wrinkling her nose up.

“I know,” she says. “That’s the problem, Harry. It’s over now, anyway. We’re hanging out at Ron’s house tomorrow and you better be there. Cedric _wants_ you there, before you ask.” At Harry’s reluctant expression, Hermione glares. “It’s our last proper summer together, alright? Please don’t make this about–”

She cuts herself off. Harry doesn’t know what she was going to say - _you? Cedric? Tom?_ \- but the worrying thing is she’d be right, whatever it was. Harry nods, resolute. It’s their last proper summer together, and at the very least he should make it count.

*

_I broke up with Cedric last week_

_I’m sorry to hear that._

_Are you?_

_Are we doing this again? You know how I feel about you._

_Was worth a try I guess_

*

Uni is simultaneously nothing and everything like Harry expected. It’s easier to live alone than he thought it would be, and maybe that in itself should be worrying. He misses his parents, of course, but the people in his flat are fun and easy to get along with. He’s surprised he doesn’t have alcohol poisoning by the end of the week, and he has to call his mother guilty at just gone midday to ask her how to get vomit stains out of a duvet.

He’s enjoying his course, as well. He never thought he would. Back at school, he looked forward to the prospect of university and he saw nothing but boredom and misery, something that would trap him and dictate the rest of his life. But it’s _fun._ Maybe that’s what he didn’t expect: that he could actually enjoy something. 

School fucking sucked, Harry decides, but uni is alright. 

He calls Tom regularly as well. Everybody else is facing their own hectic new lives at uni and, dotted around the country as they are, meeting up isn’t exactly an option. Hermione rages in their group chat sometimes about how Draco is being a pompous idiot and how she wishes she’d gone for Oxford instead, but she’s still too busy to call. Harry expects everyone will be, at least for the first few weeks. 

So he calls Tom a lot more. It’s difficult; Tom is working on another album and after that he’ll be going on tour and Harry feels panicky and anxious when he thinks about how long it’ll be before they get to see each other again. Then he forces himself to breathe deeply and keeps all that panic, all that nervous energy, locked tightly inside. This is exactly what Tom didn’t want: Harry relying on him, afraid to make new friends, missing out on opportunities because of their relationship. It makes more sense now, even if it still stings.

It becomes a running joke with his flatmates - Sunday nights are reserved for Harry’s ‘boyfriend’, and under no circumstances are they to be disturbed. They don’t know who Tom really is - well, Neville might have an idea, but the others don’t. 

They’re nice people. Harry makes friends with a guy named Neville pretty quickly, and Dean and Seamus are fun. Stupidly in love and reckless when they’re drinking, but fun nonetheless. Draco’s friend Pansy ends up sharing with them as well, which Harry hadn’t expected, but she’s easier to get along with than he thought back at school. As long as nobody bothers her in the morning, at least. 

Tom is happy for him, even if his smile goes tight and tense whenever Harry mentions dating.

He’s been on a few dates since he got here, if only to convince Tom that he’s trying. Tom is full of ideas about trying new things and gaining experience, and Harry wants to be with him so badly that it hurts sometimes. He’ll do whatever it takes to prove to Tom that he’s ready for this, for a relationship. 

Even if a voice at the back of his mind tells him that he’s going about it all wrong. That’s what college parties are for, after all. 

*

By the time Christmas rolls around, Harry is exhausted. The end of the first term brings with it a mountain of assignments that Harry is just not emotionally prepared to deal with. He has one more lecture before he can go home for the holiday, and he can’t wait. 

He facetimes Tom instead of doing any work, of course. He’s still in a good mood and his flatmates mysteriously vanished earlier this evening, claiming they all had completely separate, unrelated plans. Only Pansy had stayed behind, shuffling her feet in a show of uncharacteristic hesitance. Harry would be suspicious if he weren’t so damn tired. If they want to be weird and cryptic, let them. Neville never can keep a secret for very long.

Tom picks up on the fourth ring, holding his phone in front of him as he moves. He looks surprised.

“Sorry, is this a bad time?” Maybe he should have texted first. 

“No, no, it’s okay,” Tom says, smiling slowly. “I was just on my way to meet someone. I’ve got a few minutes, though. What’s up?”

“Nothing, really.” Harry shrugs, feeling stupid and shy. He just felt like talking, but with Tom being so busy these days, that isn’t a very good excuse. “I just wanted to talk. Are you gonna be free over Christmas?”

“You mean am I coming to visit?”

“Well, yeah.”

“You think your parents would be alright with that?” Even as he says it, Tom is grinning like he knows something Harry doesn’t. Harry narrows his eyes, leg bouncing under his desk as the nerves settle in. 

“What’s happening right now? You’re acting weird.”

“Am I?” Tom widens his eyes, all smiles and faux innocence. 

“You’re up to something.” Harry accuses. This isn’t the first time Tom has been weird and secretive - Harry worries every time that they’ll revert back to that stubborn silence, even though he knows it’s unfair and irrational - but it’s the first time Tom has looked so happy about it. “Tell me.”

“Harry, I really don’t know what you mean.” He's _laughing,_ the little shit. “Listen, I’ve gotta go, alright? Like I said, I have to meet someone.”

Harry sits back in his seat and crosses his arms over his chest, making sure Tom sees the gesture. “Fine,” he says. “But I’m gonna call you later, alright?”

“Alright.” Tom nods.

“And I’m gonna get it out of you, whatever it is you’re hiding.”

Tom’s smile stretches across his whole face. He’s still stupidly handsome like this, stubble over his jaw, hair falling over his forehead. “I’m sure you will.”

The screen goes black and for a moment, Harry wonders if he imagined the whole thing. If Tom hadn’t been smiling the whole time, Harry would be worried that something serious was going on. 

A sudden knock at the door startles him. It’s probably Pansy, coming to borrow a phone charger or something equally simple. For the first time this evening, Harry is relieved his flatmates are out. He’s too hung up on that phone call to pay attention to a group movie marathon.

“Coming,” Harry calls out, pushing himself across the room on his chair, almost falling over the side as the wheels spin. He reaches the door - in one piece, by some miracle - and wrenches it open.

Then he blinks. Rubs his eyes, looks again. 

Tom states down at him with a bemused smile, eyes flitting from Harry to the chair and back again. “What are you doing down there?” He asks.

Harry stands upright so quickly that the chair flies backwards across the room, and he doesn’t even wince as it crashes into the wall. He grabs Tom’s arm and squeezes, just to make sure he isn’t actually losing his mind, and then, like a dam has broken, like all the months of not seeing Tom in person and not being able to touch him have finally caught up with him, his hand slides to Tom’s shoulder. He’s real and warm and reaching up to take Harry’s hand in his, pressing a kiss to his knuckles.

“You’re here,” Harry breathes. “Holy shit, what the hell are you doing _here?_ How did you even get in? I thought you were busy! Aren’t you supposed to be recording now? Do my–”

Tom covers his mouth carefully. His hand is so big that it takes up half Harry’s face, and _that_ is not a kink that he’s going to examine at the moment.

“One question at a time, or I’m leaving.” Tom squeezes Harry’s cheeks together gently, just once, and then lets go. Harry is still too dumbfounded to do anything but watch in stunned silence, so Tom rolls his eyes and barges past, into Harry’s tiny, embarrassing dorm room. He looks around with an assessing look in his eyes and, whatever he sees, he must find acceptable. Then his gaze lands on the poster of - fuck, this is why Harry didn’t want surprise visits - Tom’s latest album handing by his bed, and his eyebrows jump.

“Really?” He jerks his thumb at it. “If you want, I can sign it too.”

“Oh my god,” Harry stammers, covering his face with his hands. He is utterly mortified and he will never recover. “It was– I put that up as a joke! It was a _joke,_ okay? I– _hey,_ I’m not answering any of your questions until you answer mine.”

Tom sighs dramatically, as though Harry is being a pest. “Obviously, I broke into the office and stole a keycard.” Harry must look particularly unimpressed with this answer, because he relents straight away. “Alright, alright. I may or may not have contacted Draco, and asked him to ask his girlfriend to let me in.”

Harry blinks. “Girlfriend?” He asks. Then, “No, actually don’t bother. I really don’t want to know. Pansy let you in? Without a fuss? She never mentioned it.”

“It was supposed to be a surprise,” Tom says, and then does a little turn on the spot. “So, surprise?”

“I’m going home tomorrow! I have a lecture at nine and then I’m going back to my parents’.”

Tom grins and covers the distance between them. He doesn’t do anything, doesn’t try to touch Harry in any way, even though Harry almost wishes he would. He just stands there, close enough for Harry to feel his heat. 

“I know,” he says. “I talked to your parents, Harry. I’m driving you home tomorrow. That is, if you want me to.”

Faintly, all Harry can think to say is, “You talk to my parents behind my back? Tom, that’s so weird.”

“Of course I do.” Tom snorts, as though Harry should have seen this one coming a mile away. “We have a group chat specifically dedicated to talking about you. Did you know we’ve already started organising your nineteenth birthday party? Plans are in motion, Harry.”

“Oh my god.”

“You really want me to break their hearts, huh? Tell them the ice sculpture isn’t coming?”

“You _better_ be joking,” Harry warns. Tom just laughs, and with him, that is not a reassuring answer at all. “I just… I can’t believe you’re here. You’re actually here.”

If his voice tilts up at the end, hoarse with disbelief and longing, who could blame him?

“I am,” Tom replies softly. “Did you miss me?”

“You know I did. We’ve both just been so busy.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

Harry shrugs, lopsided, and bites his lip. “I didn't mean you should apologise. I know it’s not your fault.”

Tom pulls him in for a hug, sudden and unexpected. His arms wrap around Harry’s waist and he holds him so lightly, as though he’s holding something precious that he’s afraid will break in his arms. His hand slides warmly up and down Harry’s back as the other cups the nape of his neck, plays with his hair where it’s getting long and unruly. Harry tucks his face into Tom’s neck and clings to him. Who knows when he’ll get this opportunity again.

Harry doesn’t even realise he’s speaking until Tom shakes his head. “Thank you,” he’s saying, whispering it against Tom’s skin over and over. “Thank you, thank you.”

“Don’t,” Tom says back. He walks them carefully backwards and guides Harry onto the bed, both of them sitting side by side so their thighs press together. “You shouldn’t thank me, Harry. I’m here because I want to be.”

Harry thrashes his head up and down. “Yeah,” he says. “I know. Thank you.”

Tom gets a hand under his chin and tilts his face up smoothly. It’s so heady and familiar that Harry feels faint, a powerful memory rushing across the forefront of his mind. Tom is looking at him, eyes so dark and intense and full of purpose; Harry is drawn closer, mesmerised by the way his lips look so soft and red in the dim light of his room.

“God, Tom.” Harry shudders. He’s clinging desperately to Tom’s arms. “Can I–”

“Yes,” Tom breathes. “Fuck, yes.”

Harry kisses Tom first, his grip tightening around his biceps. One hand goes to his hair, bristly and short at the back of his neck, and then smooths upwards to tangle in the longer strands on top of his head. He breaths Tom in, craves the warmth of his open mouth. When Tom’s hand lands on his thigh, spanning the entire width of his leg, and slides slowly upwards, inching towards his cock, Harry gasps and spreads his legs without meaning to. 

“Please,” he babbles. “Please, Tom, fuck. I’ve waited so long, I’ve wanted this for so long. I’ve imagined you so many times, _please.”_

It’s all true; he’s touched himself to the thought of Tom so often that he’s lost count. Tom was his entire sexual awakening, so of course Harry has jerked off to him before. And now, with the tips of his fingers brushing the hard outline of Harry’s cock through his sweatpants, every fantasy he’s ever had pales in comparison. He’s going to come if Tom so much as breathes on him.

“Me too,” Tom is saying when Harry finally tunes back in, and his voice is so deep and gravelly that Harry’s hips thrust desperately, trying to find some pressure to grind against. “Dreamt of you so many times. You’re so beautiful, so perfect, I knew you would be.”

Harry kisses him again. With Tom hovering above him, caging Harry’s body in beneath his own, telling Harry how beautiful he is and how pretty he sounds when he moans, how could he not? 

“I love you,” Harry gasps. It’s shocked out of him, a little gut punched whisper when Tom stops teasing and finally curls a loose fist around the shape of his cock. He’s worried it will change things, stop things, throw their dynamic off balance, but in fact it does the opposite. Tom groans loudly and whorishly as though he has been electrocuted and his whole body shudders. He slots one muscular thigh between Harry’s legs and lets Harry ride it, nails scratching up his back where his t-shirt is riding up, teeth clamped down into his shoulder.

Harry wonders, in a fit of frantic desire, whether Tom has ever heard those words spoken from someone who truly means them.

“I love you,” Tom replies, so sincere that tears well in Harry’s eyes. “More than anything. You’re my life. My _soulmate.”_ His voice breaks on the last word. Tears begin to roll in steady streams down Harry’s cheeks, and Tom kisses them away.

It’s that vulnerable tenderness, in the end, that pushes Harry over the edge. It’s the openness in his eyes, the wonder and disbelief that somebody actually loves him. Affection for the man above him pushes at Harry’s rib cage, so much of it trying to get out and surround him, that he thinks his heart might burst.

“Harry. Let go,” Tom says, and bites Harry’s lower lip, and that’s it. Harry’s back arches and his vision blacks out and when he comes round again, his whole body is pulsing with energy. His boxers are wet.

“Fuck,” Tom gasps. “Fuck, you’re so hot. That was so hot.”

He’s still hard. Harry can feel it against his hip, Tom’s cock. He’s closer to it now than he ever thought he’d be, and he doesn’t want to waste the opportunity. He wants to hold it, taste it, feel the heavy weight of it on his tongue. But there will be time for that later. They have the rest of their lives. As much as he wants to savour this moment, Tom is shaking above him, his eyes clenched tightly shut, his hair stuck to his forehead with sweat. He is coming apart at the seams, the least put together Harry has ever seen him even when he was getting blackout drunk at parties. A hot, possessive feeling unfurls slowly in his gut and fills him with pride at the knowledge that _he_ did that, he wrecked Tom’s composure so thoroughly that Tom is now trembling in his arms.

All he wants right now is to get Tom off as quickly and efficiently as possible, so he can hold him afterwards. 

He unbuttons Tom’s jeans, drags the zipper down carefully so he doesn’t catch Tom’s skin and then works his hand inside. Tom’s dick is impossibly hard against him and so warm. He gives a tight, tentative stroke and Tom grunts.

“Yeah,” Harry whispers, setting up a fast rhythm. Tom’s cock throbs in his hand. “Fuck, yeah. I love you.”

Tom’s head hangs low, his hair tickling Harry’s chest. “Say it again,” he says.

“I love you. I love you, Tom.”

He knows Tom is going to come when he goes still and tense all over. The muscles in his arms strain as he holds himself up and he comes over Harry’s fist, panting for breath. He holds himself up for just long enough to ride out the high, thrusting lazily into Harry’s hand once, twice, before he collapses onto the mattress and rolls to the side so as not to crush Harry underneath him. 

After a shared moment to catch their breath, Tom says, “Shit.”

Privately, Harry has to agree. “Does this mean– I mean, is this something we’re doing now? As friends?”

Tom pushes Harry’s sweaty hair out of his eyes and strokes the backs of his knuckles down his cheek. “Do you want it to be?” He asks carefully. 

“You know how I feel,” Harry tells him. “You know what I want. But if you just want to be friends still, or if you want to wait longer, we can do that. We could– I don’t know, just do this as, like, an additional thing.”

“Oh, you mean like boyfriends?” But his tone is teasing and his smile, when he levels it at Harry, is perfectly relaxed. 

“Your words, not mine.”

Harry grabs Tom’s arm and straightens it out, pillows his head on it and laces their fingers together. 

“I don’t know, Harry,” he sighs. “I thought I knew what was best for you. But it’s not fair of me to say that anymore. I thought I could wait longer, but maybe we were never going to be able to wait much longer than this. You’re an adult, now. It’d be kind of a dick move if I didn’t even let you make your own decision about this.”

Harry nods slowly. He has thought about this a thousand times before. He thought he was old enough to make this decision when he was fifteen, and sixteen, and seventeen. He had been so sure before he left school that he knew what he wanted and that Tom was just being patronising and overprotective, that waiting was a dumb idea. But now, lying in the darkness, feeling Tom’s lethargic pulse under his fingers, he has never felt less ready to make his own decisions.

What if he messes this up? What if he’s not ready for a proper relationship? He is in love with Tom and he has never been more sure of anything. It’s as sure a fact as the heartbeat under Tom’s skin. But is that really all he needs to do? Just love _enough?_

“Harry,” Tom says quietly, so quietly that he almost doesn’t hear. When he turns his head, Tom is watching him with a smile so sweet and so sad that it hurts to look at. “You don’t have to make a decision now. You really don’t, darling. There’s no rush. I promise, I’m not going anywhere.”

Harry’s bottom lip trembles. “I just want to be around you as much as possible, okay?” He says. “Can we do that? Is that okay?”

“Of course we can do that,” Tom replies. “We can do anything you want. It’s all okay.”

Harry turns his face and kisses his arm, squeezes his hand, tries to channel as much love as possible through all the places their bodies are touching in those simple gestures. He thinks, he hopes, Tom understands.

And then he clears his throat. The atmosphere is too heavy and stifling for the moment, and Harry doesn’t want to look back on this with anything but happiness. He moves onto lighter conversation. “So you’re really spending Christmas with us?”

Tom grins. “If you want me to.”

Harry beams, and he can’t even bring himself to care that he’s smiling like an idiot. “Of course I do. I knew my parents would want you over. I just didn’t know if you’d want to be there.”

“Harry,” Tom says. “I never want to miss another moment with you again.” Then his smile melts away to something softer and sweeter. “How’d you know your parents would want me there, anyway?”

“Tom, my parents love you.”

Tom laughs, delighted and carefree. It’s addictive, seeing him like that after so long of seeing him guarded and fake. “Yeah?”

“I think they’ve loved you almost as long as I have.” He props himself up on his elbow and rests his head in his hand. “That’s a long time, in case you’re wondering.”

Tom swallows. Harry watches the way his throat bobs with the motion, hypnotised. “Tell me again,” he breathes just like he did a few moments ago, eyes going soft and warm.

Harry’s heart aches for him, for the fact that he has to reassure himself, the fact that he has to hear it again and again before he can consider believing it, but it soars as well because he will never, ever get tired of saying ‘I love you’ to Tom Riddle. 

So he says it again, and again, and he whispers it into Tom’s hair and kisses his forehead and he will never, ever give it up. Their lives are bound together forever, and not just because of the words on their skin, but the words in their hearts. 

_I love you,_ and _always._

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think! <3


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